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Flash Fiction Friday: The Bloody Pustule Beauty Pageant

by Bob Freville

They’re spilling out on to the rickety termite-ridden runway. Woo daddy! We can see them lumbering out now! Oh yes! Those adorable little gals! Our bright shining stars of the tomorrows that may never come!

Yep, ladies and gentlemen! They’re a sight for sore, empty eye sockets fer sure!

Why, if this were the old days, before the blast leveled our entire infrastructure, why, I’d say you could bet yer bottom dollar that one of these girls is gonna be a princess one day!

Yes, you guessed it! It’s the second annual Miss Residuum Post-Apocalyptic Beauty Pageant, my dears!

And you can bet your meat rations that anticipation is high right now as the pageant judges, the Four Freds of the Post-Apocalypse—Rogers, Gwynne, Savage and Durst—clear their phlegmatic throats and slobber all over themselves, awaiting the young ladies.

And here they are, in our dimly-lit barroom, as Mr. Rogers gropes himself til he’s bloody and leers at nothing in particular and what’s that? Oh yes! Savage grins zealously and sticks a hypo in his empty eye socket. Yowzers! And we’re off to the races!

Every contestant has filed in now, powdered and primped all! They sure are adorable in their charred pageant wear. Banana satin bleached by the scorching sun, organza eaten away by age and radiation, ruffled carnation crumpled and withered by rain and heat, but every one of the petite princesses inhabiting them just utterly darling!

To the left of the stage you can see Lil Ms. Lilith Puck, fourteen, of Hell Broth Province, spittle curdling on what’s left of her dangling mandible. Weighing in at a bone-crunchingly svelte sixty-one pounds, Lilith is a leper who is blind in one eye. But she’s a visionary when it comes to capturing our hearts!

Beside her sits Orca Gibbons, eighteen with the morbid obesity of a woman at least five times her age. Immobile but immaculate in her cobalt steel electric wheelchair, Orca is, pound for pound, the prettiest BBW here and smart to boot! Just ask her parents who died in the nuke fallout two years ago. They would’ve told you, young Orca has an IQ that’s nearly as high as what registers when you roll her on to a scale!

In the middle here we have the lovely Lonnie Licorice in her lavender and mold colored costume that brings out the natural sheen of the chains secured to her wrists and ankles. Despite her living dead status, I’m told she prides herself on dental hygiene and one glance at those great big pearly white chompers tells me it’s true! Just look at her smile as she gnashes at the air! Darling! Simply darling!

Next we’ve got Fantasia Brillo! Sixteen, silly hot and fresh from a spinal tap, Fantasia is wearing a twinkling tiara that tells us she’s either preparing to win the crown…or wants desperately to hide her lobotomy scars! Either way, it’s a delight to watch her sashay around…and around…and around, until she dry heaves and her eyes roll up in her head.

Oops! Down she goes! Unfortunately Fantasia will no longer be competing, as her wounds seem to have split open upon impact with the band stand.

But there’s still the alluring, the attractive and the down-right abrasive Penny Pigtails. We’re told she’s a real cunt and that can only mean one thing. DIVA!!! Oh yes, this four-foot and two inch tall li’l tinkerbell is a real heart-breaker, folks. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was going to win this thing!

The stage is littered in mutants of every stripe and sexual persuasion, from skin-headed unicycle-riding cyborg Sybian riders in frumpy lace to zombie bitches in bustiers, their decaying flesh flanked by Christmas lights. But the front-runners are already clear at this year’s Miss Residuum Beauty Pageant—It’s Lilith, Orca, Lonnie and Penny Pigtails.

As the medics spirit Fantasia away…to the incinerator in the rear of the auditorium, a hush falls over the otherwise agonizingly aroused crowd.

A surprise understudy takes her place in a sopping wet swivel chair. It’s Susie Sliver, last year’s winner and yesterday’s dinner from the looks of her skeletal cadaver. She says nothing, but the rouge applied to her last surviving flap of face skin speaks a thousand words! Gorgeous!

Aaaaaaand SHOWTIME!!! The girls are squeezed into too-small swimsuits by men in purple surgical gloves and spun around so the Freds can see what they ate for breakfast. Lilith’s jaw comes completely unhinged and hits Savage in the side of his head.

Eww!! He blinks twice, either in disbelief or from a tic borne of radiation poisoning.

Lilith is eliminated from the contest on grounds of insolence. Her jaw is stomped into splinters by Fred Gwynne’s platform boot. It is not returned to her.

Next up we have the elegant evening attire. Just look at that Penny Pigtails, waving jazz hands at the brown stain on the front of her gown! A true sibyl, this one! The frothy-mouthed mutants groan in abject disappointment as she and Orca fight for attention, throwing out their hips in the process.

It would seem Penny is about to be eliminated by the judges by way of an infrared sniping, but wait! Penny jumps up and down, throwing a temper tantrum and, O Cod! O Cod! Yes, Lonnie mistakes Penny’s furtive movements for those of a sizzling plate of sirloin and sinks her maw into little Penny’s throat.

The Freds raise solid nines as their grills are bathed in guano-hot arterial spray. It looks like ole “Zombie Lonnie” just might have this one in the bag!

The highlight of any beauty pageant here is always the pustules, my peasant pals!

That’s right! It’s the Miss Residuum pustule-eating contest! And all the girls are doing so well, sucking back their scabs and sores and even reaching over and consuming them off each other, that the Four Freds call a draw.

Now the real fun can begin in earnest. The girls are gonna get sweaty.

Lonnie looks mighty confused as the stage hands throw her a jump rope, but never mind that bitch, boys and girls!

Orca is out of her wheelchair now, struggling through eyes blinded by beads of sweat, and huffing and puffing toward the spotlight. She’s got something in her hands, something she’s dragging along the ground.

Yes! It’s her colostomy bag! Yes! And she’s using it to skip rope! Wow! Don’t that just beat all?

Look at her go! I haven’t seen a mastodon jump that high since the Nazis electrocuted them in World War II propaganda footage! Woo!

The Freds are about ready to make a judgment call here.

Yes, they’ve just removed their hands from their trousers and are ready to announce the winners.

And the Jon Bonet Ramsey Runner-Up Award goes to Suzie Sliver, for really giving it her all despite her obvious immobility! Give ‘er a hand, folks. Hers don’t work after all. Awwwwwww!

And the winner of the Second Annual Miss Residuum Beauty Pageant iiiiiiis…Orca Gibbons!

She wheels herself to center stage as Suzie Sliver stares off vacantly. A spider skitters across the spotlight overhead and somewhere an Andalusian eye is slit straight down the middle. The night is young, but the time has come.

As the ribbon is strapped to her substantial midsection, a commotion is heard off camera. What is this we’re hearing? Aww, look at them trying to shove twenty pounds of shit into a ten pound bag with that tiara. What? Huh? Oh no!

O my Cod! If you’re listening at home, this just in! As Orca attempted to accept her flowers without wheezing, gunfire echoed out in the room and four hundred stone of Second Annual Miss Residuum winner Orca Gibbons went flying back, dismantling the stage as bullets riddled her in her gargantuan chest.

It…it appears as though we are under attack by militant feminist lycanthropes who smelled the fresh blood of poor Fantasia and found where we were by snout. What’s this?

I’m sorry, I’m having trouble hearing anything over the explosions of tee-ee-hee-hear gas.

What’s this…ah…okay. Okay, it seems the lesbian lycanthropes have come to reclaim the crown. The leader says she and her sisters are the true Miss Residuums, having fought on the front lines in the battle against the Radioactive Ones.

O Cod! They’re threatening to level the building. And they’re DOING IT!!!!


I’m sorry, ladies and genitals. I will have to cut this one short due to the technical difficulty of losing part of my skull to mortar fire. You will have to excuse me while I crouch down even further to locate my gray matter.

Well, thish hash blin duh Shecond Annool Mish Rowowowaaaaahg, and I’m…plowed to…ablouse dat…thliss beer’s vinner, bry default, ick Miss Shoegee Shliver.

Take a bow, Shoegee.

Shoegee shez nothing. And neither can I.


Bob Freville is a part-time tool salesman and full-time writer from Long Island, New York. He has written for Creem Magazine, Bust Down The Door & Eat All The Chickens, and others. He is currently at work on several novellas and at least one gnome farm. He begs your pardon, but he never promised you a rose garden.

Flash Fiction Friday: Family Sized

by Justin Grimbol

Gwen saw two beached whales and became so excited she started jumping up and down.

“Mom? Dad?” she called out to them.

The whales looked at her.

“You’ve come back for me!” she yelled.

She ran up to them.

She tried to hug them but they were too big. Her human arms couldn’t reach around that big fat whale bodies.

“I always knew you would come back,” she kept saying.

She told them about her life. It was a long story. There were lots of boring parts.

“I’m just so glad you are here,” she said.

She tried to hug them again. They were still too big. Her arms were still too human.

It was a hot day. Her parents looked thirsty.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get you some water.”

She walked back to the parking lot and got in her Saab and headed toward Easthampton.


The movie theatre had just opened. They sold lots of stuff there. They had hot dogs and soda and popcorn and all sorts of candy. She decided to get them Diet Pepsi. Diet Pepsi was healthier and her parents were fat. Way too fat.

But, in order to get inside she had to buy a movie ticket.

She bought a ticket to Rocky XXII.

At first she had no actually interest in watching the movie. She just wanted access to buy some diet soda for her parents. But the idea of buying a movie ticket and not seeing the movie felt wasteful to her. So she watched the movie.

It was really good. Rocky had a bunch of grandkids and he yelled at them a lot. He told them about discipline and perseverance, and, for some reason, watching this made Gwen really emotional. She cried a little.

Then she thought about her parents and how much she missed them, and she cried some more.

After the movie she bought as much diet soda as she could carry.

She put the sodas in the trunk of her car and started driving toward the beach.

The beach felt really far away.

And driving was just so hard sometimes.

By the time she finally got there it was night.

She gathered up all the sodas from her trunk and headed to the beach.


The two whales smelled strange and didn’t breathe much.

She poured the sodas on them.

“Isn’t it so good,” she said.

It had been a long day.

After feeding her parents all that soda, Gwen decided to take a nap, using one of their fins as a blanket.

When she woke up she noticed that they weren’t breathing at all.

And they smelled really bad.

“Mom? Dad? Please wake up?”

She ran at them. She hurled her body on theirs.

She begged them to wake up.

And she cried.

She hit them and clawed at them and begged them to come back to life. But they didn’t listen.

The sun was rising.

The waves were loud and comforting in all the wrong ways.


You’ve heard of Justin Grimbol. Google him or something.

Show Me Your Shelves: Cody Goodfellow

Cody Goodfellow. Man, I don’t know what else to tell you people about Cody Goodfellow. I’ve interviewed him and reviewed his work because what he does is the kind of rare thing that actually deserves attention. If you don’t get it by now, you probably never will. However, I’ll give some of you the benefit of the doubt (hey, maybe you have better things to do than check out every little thing I publish) and say this again: if you’re not reading Goodfellow, you’re reading wrong.  Anyway, enough from me.

Who are you and what role do books play in your life?


Books allow me to do and think and experience everything that I’m not.

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So Cody wrote that as an answer, but he also sent me a short essay before I even sent him my questions. Here’s My Book Problem:

I have a book problem. If all the shit I’m driven to do could fill a room, I’d have to live in a mall, in a tent in the parking lot. I come from hoarders, but I can throw away anything but a book.
I started collecting books with my first trip to the library. Several years later, the library made me give all those books back and I moved onto the Scholastic monthly order form habit. Bunnicula, The Monster Club, Dynamite Magazine, The Shadow Over Innsmouth… I worked at the library in elementary and junior high, went on the annual bookbuying trips. In high school, I spent more on books than on drugs. And I really liked drugs.
The other day, I read a Harry Crews novel for the first time that I bought on impulse while standing in line to buy my textbooks my freshman year of college. I worked at Barnes & Noble for six years, and at Iliad, a righteous used bookshop in North Hollywood, for three, and I bought an armload of books with every paycheck. I self- published my first two novels with a buddy back in ’99 and ’03, so I still have a couple hundred copies of each in my garage and a cargo container on my parent’s lavish country estate down south.

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The house is on fire. You have a small backpack and three minutes to stuff it with your favorite tomes. Which books go in the bag?
A signed Barker that he did a fantastic drawing in… My Arkham House Lovecrafts, that damn Lovecraft Centipede Press art book, the deluxe Secret Teachings Of All Ages, my Giger art books and a portfolio of my oldest daughter’s drawings… but by then, I’d be on fire, so fuck it, I’d just sit down and reread Wein-Wrightson-era Swamp Thing until I’m incinerated.

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You know words and stuff. I think reading’s for nerds. Can I write one of them novel things without reading books?
The odds are against you, but if you’ve lived through a lot and you can imagine a story, then you can tell it. And if you can think about it coherently enough to tell it all the way through and don’t eat your own brain, then you may be a writer. And if you’re bigger than most readers, you might be able to make them read it.

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How many forbidden tomes are in your possession? 
All of them, I think. My first wife forbade all new books, so I had to disguise them as food.

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Why should everyone drop what they’re doing right now and go buy a copy of Repo Shark?
It’s fast, it’s fun, it removes embarrassing stains from contoured sheets. Seriously, it’ll probably take you longer to read it than it took me to write it.

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Wanna try to figure out everything you’re looking at in each pic? Here’s Cody’s guide:

Today, we’re only looking at the hardback library in my office and the stacks of mostly unread stuff I keep in here to annoy myself. The paperback and nonfiction aisles in the garage, where most of my shit is, are still in a state of chaos. As difficult as it may be to make out many of the individual titles, I had to rearrange a lot just to get at what you can see, and in so doing blocked off the door, so I’d finish the same day.
This isn’t everything I read or even a lot of it, but these are the things I care about and have buried myself with, so it’s safe to generalize that I love almost all forms of pulp more than life.
So… the office fiction shelves are maybe 1⁄4 of my hardcovers, but the stuff I like to watch slowly deteriorate in what little sunlight leaks into the room. In the first bay, A-G, you’ll see a lot of Bacigalupi, Ballard, Barker, Blaylock, Blumlein, Cain, Campbell, Crews, Dick, Eco, Ellison, Ellroy, Gaiman, Gibson and a lot of Hot Wheels cars.
On the second bay, things get messy, but if you can see past the action figures and novelty bongs and preschool tchotchkes, there’s a lot of Hodgson, Howard, Hunter, Huston, Jeter, a lot of (old, mostly good) King, Laidlaw, Lansdale, Leiber, Ligotti, and almost all the Lovecraft. The old selected letters are absurdly expensive, but opening one anywhere is like kicking in a cellar window and peeking into a haunted house.
McCammon, Mieville, Moorcock, Newman, Niven, Palahniuk and some Partridge in a Powers tree… Prominently displayed, you might notice the Manuscript Found In Saragossa that I said I was going to read for the Bizarro Central Summer reading list. It turned out to be more of an autumnal book. Right now, I’m rereading Hour Of The Dragon by Howard.

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On the third and final bay, beneath my Halloween mask collection, a lot of Schow, Shepard, Shirley, Simmons, and then Clive Barker’s stupid bondage action figures get in the way. I kind of wanted to see if I left them there for several years, would their silhouettes get burned onto the faded spines. This experiment is far from completion. A lot of Michael Shea, Simmons, Clark Ashton Smith, George Browning Spencer, Stableford, Stephenson, Stross, Sturgeon, Thompson, Wagner and Wolfe. Cut off underneath, the anthologies runneth over, indifferent to posterity.

Sideshow attractions include the Really Huge Mound of Unread Graphic Novels, which takes up about 30% of my floor space. This seemingly unfortunate mess actually serves the vital purpose of hiding all my really special art books (nudge, wink, please kill me) from the hostilities of sunlight and the vice squad.
The graphic novel bays hold most of the comic books I have read, including a rather alarming set of EC and Warren reprints, all too many Marvel Masterworks volumes, and a pallet of Spectrum and Expose and Juxtapoz, for when even rudimentary sequential art becomes too mentally taxing. Also included is the nonfiction shelves of stuff I’m supposed to be reading for my next couple books. A lot in there about urban blight, private prisons,
mercenaries, the Great Depression and stage magicians. Up top, keen-eyed readers might notice my short reference shelf, including the dictionary my grandmother gave me for my tenth birthday, French and German dictionaries, Harms’ Encyclopedia Cthulhiana and the most invaluable tool in any writer’s box, Plotto.
So, I own my book problem. Meanwhile, my pioneering research into an effective way to smoke books continues apace…

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Gabino Iglesias is a writer, journalist, and book reviewer living in Austin, TX. He’s the author of Gutmouth and a few other things no one will ever read. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias

Flash Fiction Friday: Booger Sugar

by Bob Freville

He always loved to sniff things, to whiff things. He always dug fresh smells.

His first olfactory hallucination occurred in puberty.

He got it bad after graduation. Bands of cilia saturated in what looked like rotting corpses but smelled like strips of cotton candy.

Years had passed without a one, but he still went smelling everyone. Salty. Snotty like almond custard. Heady, musty face fucks, stinging the bridge. That smell you get with a chest infection, chicken soup and nutty mucous. Sniffing the jissom on movie theater floors or the ammonia scent of urine in bathroom stalls.

He sniffed and whiffed up and down the coast, always focused on his nose.

He’d gotten fucked plenty times before, despite this preoccupation. Mostly impressionable girls with nasal fetishes, the type of flat-backers who gave discounts to dudes with dong-size shnozzes.

But no bitch meant a good goddamn compared to the thrill of smelling. He couldn’t help himself.

He never had tolerance for the simple skullfuckery that seemed to come with relationships, possessed no patience for high maintenance possessions, had no drive to strive to afford some chick a necklace.

But then it happened. Random. Impossible. What was he wearing that day? Had he removed the pore strip from that morning’s scrubbing?

His nostrils flared out like the grill of a great big blow fish. His bloodshot blues on fire with the sight of her. Like an ocular eruption that resounded in his Eustachian tubes, goo renewed in his nasal passages.

After a lifetime of boring snatches of scent and bitches bland, the succubitch appeared all gorgeous and tanned. She wore brand-spanking new shoes with that new rubber snuff and that lemonade lip balm that he wanted to huff.

Her whole entire body radiated a musk that sent the Nosiest Man on a mission for muff.
Stumbling, bumbling, he pulled out all the stops to woo her and swoon her, stepping on his own toes in a complex of awkward gestures. His hands and arms flailed as he stupidly spat…Dollar Store pick-up lines & back-alley jokes.

“What’s the definition of trust, eh? …Give up? Two cannibals giving each other blow-jays.”

Cut to the fall-out. After weeks of stalking, he zeroes in, gets close.

It’s always the salad days in the beginning, but the omega comes on us quick.

She’s streaking through the garden in the center of his apartment complex, attempting to outrun the Nosy Man with the restraints in his hands—purple fetish tape in one, a pair of Vise Grips clutched in the other. And it really seems like she wants to get away.

She twists her delicate neck around in time to see him run up on her with the Vise Grips raised and yelling, “I can’t help myself!”

Her eyes zoom in on the putrid proboscis.

Match cut to: Int. The Nosiest Man’s Apt. – Late Night.

The crickets are rubbing their feelers together in the dark, cacophony of fucking on the edge of the moon-drenched onyx nightscape. And there he is, the nose, a sniffer getting his full snoot with Vise Grips clamped tight around the throat and “Pleasure Tape” secured firmly around taut flesh.

It’s the consummate moment in his beak’s adenoidal career, a whiff to end all whiffers. But he’s overzealous and inhales too hard and, the next thing he knows, she is gone. But to where? How did she get away and why is there a lavender rope dangling from his nostril?

No matter. The rope is sucked up right quick and the man is left to blink idiotically, standing dumb-founded over his water mattress, now coated in renegade sperm and snot.
His eyes roll up involuntarily when she goes to work. And in an instant He is no longer himself. Control is lost.

Olfactory nerves are nerves like any others. He learns this when she tugs on them from within. And suddenly, he has a powerful desire to go shopping.

In under twenty-four hours his bank account is drained, his credit is rendered non-existent, his landlord is fucked dry and his appliances multiply ten-fold. He no longer wants to snort anything but the finest fish-scale money can buy and powdering his nose doesn’t mean just that but, rather, a combination of concealer and rouge.

The purple rope is no longer visible, but it is there all the same, metaphorically wound round his neck. It’s got him by the short and curlies, willing him, walking him, sending him straight where it wants him to be.

She’s one booger he’ll never shake, never finger, never prove in a court of law. He is done for. Suck too hard and she’ll burrow in deeper and brain rape him. And from there she’ll head further until there’s nothing left. She uses his lobes to let him know this, so he’ll think twice before attempting to rattle her loose.

He knows better now than to use his nose for no good. He was a naughty boy with a nose fetish, but now he’s a crafty girl with an eye…an eye toward destruction.


Bob Freville is a writer from Long Island, a freelance writer of fourteen years, a former associate editor of Kotori Magazine, and the writer/director of the Troma vampire flick Hemo.

Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical: A Novel

leppyleppyleppyOut now from Broken River Books: LEPRECHAUN IN THE HOOD: THE MUSICAL: A NOVEL by Cameron Pierce, Adam Cesare, and Shane McKenzie

Thirty, jobless, and going prematurely bald, amateur director Simon has dumped every last dime into his pet project: a musical adaptation of the cult film LEPRECHAUN IN THE HOOD. With a week til curtains up, the production is a disaster. His actors can’t act, his crew hates his guts, and his set has a tendency to go up in flames. And all that is before the actual leprechaun, a mythological beast with a penchant for limericks and grisly murder, catches wind of the whole operation. Gathering as many four-leaf-clovers and wrought-iron spears as they can, the surviving cast and crew must band together to kill the creature and ensure that the musical goes ahead as planned. But with an army of undead strippers at his side, the leprechaun is determined to disembowel, behead, and battle rap his way toward reclaiming his gold…and his intellectual property.

Click here to buy the paperback.

Click here to buy the Kindle edition.

Flash Fiction Friday: Writing in Tongues

by Harry Brawngrout

He stuck the end of the crowbar into the dead boy’s mouth and tried to pry the jaw loose. A centimeter of space and then it snapped right back shut like it was spring loaded. Tight. The dead boy grinned where his lips had been ripped away, a demented crocodile.

He repositioned the flashlight to shine directly into the dead boy’s face. Like a golfer he pulled his arm back and then swung the crowbar into the grinning mouth. There was a crunching sound like chewing broken glass. He got down on his knees and shone the light into the gaps where teeth had been.

Nothing. He could still see nothing. He reached his index finger in blindly and felt the tongue. He managed to grip the tip and pull it out of the mouth. An inch, six inches, three feet. The entire prophecy was written there if he could only decode the ancient script.

With a machete he hacked the long tongue free. A viscous black fluid wept from the end. He felt it with his fingers. It had the consistency of motor oil and burned him slightly.

He put the tongue into his satchel and turned to leave, but the hand on his ankle stopped him dead.

He looked down at the dead boy. The milky eyes didn’t seem to understand what was going on. The boy moved his mouth and gurgled, drooling the greasy secretions down his chin.

“Now, goddammit, boy. You know I need the whole tongue.”

“Urh-urh!” the boy said, pointing at his mouth.

“I can’t give it back to you, boy. I need it, I told you!”

“Uh-uhhh-urrrrh!” said the boy, trying to stand.

“Just go on down and lay in your grave, now. Go on. Get!” He pointed to the open grave some few feet distant and spat at the boy’s feet.

The boy groaned again and stuck his fist into his mouth. He reached it far too deep and pulled out something that looked like another tongue. This one was even longer and written in the same alien script as the first. The boy pointed enthusiastically at the new tongue and chirped, “Eeee-eee-eee!”

“Hell, boy. Are you playing games with me from beyond the grave?”

The boy cracked a torn smile and handed the second tongue to him. Then he stooped and began to pick up the broken tooth fragments and place them back into his mouth.

“Well, I ‘spect you’ll be wanting your old tongue back then.”

The boy nodded, fingers still arranging ivory bits in his ruined gums.

“Well, boy, I can’t take the chance of giving back the wrong one.”

The dead boy’s eyes grew dark and he wailed.

“Hold your horses!” he said and pulled out his own tongue. With a jerk he yanked it free. He waved it in the boy’s direction.

The boy looked at it in disgust, but then shrugged and placed the tongue into his mouth. He wiggled it for a bit and then began to speak:

“Hello? Aw hell, now I talk like you! Dammit, fella!”

He shrugged at the boy and walked on, shining the flashlight alternately between each tongue, mumbling, “Urrh-urrrh-uh,” and tasting blood.


Harry Brawngrout composes works of gritty Southern Fried Gothic Noir Punk while listening to the Jesus Lizard, Buzzove*n, Mule, and Tad in his momma’s pop-up camper. His first novel was lost in a fire. He has vowed to track that fire down and make it pay.

Fantastic Earth Destroyer Ultra Plus by Cameron Pierce & Jim Agpalza

frontcover-194x300An apocalyptic nightmare in the tradition of UzumakiThe Epic of Gilgamesh, and Tetsuo: The Iron Man.
In the mining town of Itchy Zoo lives a boy with pumpkin flesh. His name is Tetsuo, and he’d like to tell you about the terrible things that brought ruin to his town. How he shot his brother, how the people of Itchy Zoo became puppets, how he fell in love for the first and last time, and how Satan watched it all go down.
Written by Wonderland Book Award-winning author Cameron Piece and fully illustrated by Jim Agpalza, Fantastic Earth Destroyer Ultra Plus is a bizarro epic that’s as beautiful as it is bleak.
CLICK HERE to get yours today!

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